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1921a 
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HENRY Polk Lowenstein 

























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Henry Polk IvOWenstein 










BY 


Henry Polk Lowenstein 

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Dedicated to the A77ierican Legion 
by the Author 


Second Edition 


Published by 

Henry Polk Lowenstein 
Kansas City, Missouri 
1921 







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Copyrighted 1921 
By HENRY POLK LOWENSTEIN 
Kansas City, Missouri 



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THE AUTHOR 

He has hoped, joyed and despaired, as all men have done, 
and in due course will shake off these tatters and take his 
place with God according to his deeds in the flesh. Selah. 

And what is man, whence cometh he, whither goeth he, 
and what is his destiny? 

I know not, but this I know, that somewhere above the 
mists and clouds, away beyond the stars, in the limitless 
realm of eternal love, at the Throne of God, man stands 
revealed in the likeness of his Father and this likeness is 
the Christ and this Christ is Life and Life is God, and God 
is All. 1 Cor. 3:16-23. 


—3 


Illustrations by 
MR. L. F. WILFORD 


Photograph 

STRAUSS-PEYTON STUDIO 


CONTENTS 


Page 

An Answer to “In Flanders Fields^’. 11 

An Autobiography of a Missourian. 31 

Caruso. 30 

Christmas in Old Judsea. 21 

Decoration Day. 14 

Emancipation Day. 29 

Foreman, Dr. A. W. 29 

Forget Yourself. 23 

Historical Sketch of the Author. 32 

“How Delightful It Is'’. 17 

How to Win the War. 15 

If God Be With the Kaiser. 22 

In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae. 10 

Josiah Lamborn. 24 

Labor Day. 25 

My Buddie on the Marne. 18 

No and Yes.. 28 

O Let Me Sleep in Flanders Fields. 7 

O Let Me Sleep Right Where I Fell.-. 19 

On Battle Fields. 20 

On Flanders Fields. 14 

Our President. 20 

Pershing's Sword. 13 

The Flag. 16 

The Last Farewell of John McCrae. 12 

The Last Words of Funston. 17 

The New Year. 23 

The Rainbow and the Rose. 27 

Theodore Roosevelt.. . 19 

Welcome to Our Sailors. 9 

Welcome to Our Soldiers. 8 


5— 









































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LET ME SLEEP 
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O LET ME SLEEP IN FLANDERS FIELDS 


In Flanders Fields, O let me sleep, 

And wake me not and never weep 
For me. I rest in perfect peace; 
And till all earthly strife shall cease, 
I shall in silence slumber deep. 

You do me wrong to stir and sweep 
Away my fondest hopes and keep 
Me from my rest and just release, 

In Flanders Fields. 

Disturb me not, but let me sleep 
Right where I am and never weep 
Again, for I shall never cease 
To live and make my light increase. 
As Time rolls on in silence deep. 

In Flanders Fields. 


—?■ 


WELCOME TO OUR SOLDIERS 


On sunny days, in lilac time, 

When earth is green and skies are blue. 
When church bells ring their sweetest chime. 
And blood runs high and hearts beat true. 
Brave soldiers all, we welcome you! 

Back home again! What magic words! 

Dear mother’s love and sweetheart true. 
And little hands, and songs of birds. 

And apple blossoms peeping thru— 

Brave soldiers all, we welcome you! 

O, God of Fate! Those left behind. 

In Flanders Fields and Argonne Wood, 
And Chateau-Thierry, too, the blind. 

The lame (those steeped in richest blood), 
Lo! let us not forget this day! 

Let’s bare our heads and kneel and pray! 




—8— 


WELCOME TO OUR SAILORS 

O no, we’ll not forget the tars, ’ 

Who brave the storm and tide. 

And bear aloft the Stripes and Stars, • 
And on the ocean ride. 

No braver lads e’er went to sea. 

Nor loved their country more; 

They strove and fought for liberty. 

And guarded well the shore. 

On ships of massive steel they sped. 

To guard the transports dear. 

And when great danger lurked ahead. 
Then they were always near. 

So here’s to the lads of the deep blue sea. 
Who never failed us yet; 

We’ll stand by you through eternity. 

And welcome you honie, you bet! 


9 


IN FLANDERS FIELDS 

By LIEUT. COL. JOHN McCRAE 

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow 
Between the crosses, row on row, 

That mark our place; and in the sky 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly 
Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the dead. Short days ago 
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow. 

Loved and were loved, and now we lie 

In Flanders Fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 

To you, from failing hands, we throw 
The torch; be yours to hold it high. 

If ye break faith with us who die 
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow. 

In Flanders Fields. 

From “In Flanders Fields,” by Lieut. Col. John McCrae, courtesy of 
G. P. Putnam’s Sons, publishers,* New York and London. 


—10— 


IN FLANDERS FIELDS 


AN ANSWER TO LIEUT. COL. JOHN McCRAE’S 
POEM, ENTITLED “IN FLANDERS FIELDS.” 

Sleep on, brave soldiers, sleep, sleep where the 
poppies grow. 

Sleep on, brave soldiers, in your places, row on 
row. 

The lark’s still soaring in the sky. 

Still bravely singing, soaring high. 

Away above the cannon’s roar. 

Scarce heard amid the guns as yore, 

. Before you slept in Flanders Fields. 

The faith with you we’ve kept and battled with 
the foe; 

On crimson fields by you we’ve slept where pop¬ 
pies blow. 

The torch you flung to us we caught; 

With blist’ring hands we’ve bravely fought 
To hold it high to guard you thro the Night, 

And at the Dawn to guide you to the Light, 

When you awake from Flanders Fields. 


11— 


THE LAST FAREWELL OF 
JOHN McCRAE 


A long farewell to Flanders Field! 

I mount! I now no longer feel 

The sting of death. I upward soar 
And sweetest melodies outpour 
To Him, from Him to me revealed. 

To gaping wound and broken wheel, 
And muddy trench and flashing steel. 
And bursting shell and cannon roar, 

A long farewell! 

To scenes of youth and church-bell peal. 
To out-door-sports and mother’s leal. 

And manhood’s hope and sunny shore. 
And earthly pleasures all no more. 
And bleeding hearts that never heal, 

A long farewell! 


^12 


PERSHING’S SWORD 


Brave Pershing sailed away across the sea, 

To show the world the light; 

His soldiers bravely fought for liberty, 

And bravely died for right. 

He drew his mighty sword on crimson field. 

To battle with the Hun, 

And swore a royal oath to never yield. 

Until the field was won. 

He broke the long red line of Hindenburg 
And routed out the Prince, 

And showed the stupid Kaiser how absurd 
And vain was his defense. 

The vanquished Hun no longer plies his rod. 
And tame’s the Prussian Guard; 

The famished world has learned to trust in God, 
And Peace is its reward. 

But still there’s one more battle yet to fight. 
And that without a loss; 

It is the battle of Eternal Right, 

The gold without the dross. 

It must be bravely fought with King Abaddon, 
With Jesus’ stainless sword; 

It is the battle great of Armageddon, 

The battle of the Lord. 

Rev. 9:11; 16 ;16. 


13— 


I 


DECORATION DAY 

Of all the days in the fleeting year, 

The saddest and sweetest and one most dear 
To us is Decoration Day, 

When we scatter the flowers o’er the blue and 
the gray. 

And honor the khaki, far and near. 

With neither malice, hate nor fear. 
They marched away ’neath sky so clear. 
To make this day the glory-day. 

Of all the days. 

The widow’s sigh, the orphan’s tear. 

The mother’s love, the father’s cheer. 

And the poppies’ blushing heads that sway 
’Neath country’s flag and sun’s hot ray. 

Make this the day, where death is peer. 

Of all the days. 


ON FLANDERS FIELDS 

On Flanders Fields the sun beams bright. 
The silver moon looks down at night. 

And clustered stars from heaven shine 
Upon the long-drawn battle line. 

From darkness to eternal Light! 

The little mounds and crosses white. 
From lowly vale to mountain height. 
Have marked this place a holy shrine. 

On Flanders Fields! 

Tho pulseless here they won the fight. 

In that great battle for the right. 

And now their souls in peace recline 
And rest in that Great Heart-of-Mine, 
While curtain falls without affright. 

On Flanders Fields! 


14— 



HOW TO WIN THE WAR 


Woodie and Teddie and Josephus and Newtie, 

All to your places to do your full duty; 

A long pull, a strong pull, a pull altogether; 

A long pull, a strong pull, in all sorts o’ weather; 
Thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. 

With one great heave to move the big Boulder, 

A little here and a little there. 

And this is how to win the war. 

Let every young farmer remain on the farm. 

And every fair maiden retain her sweet charm; 
Let every skilled artisan stay at his post. 

And not one unit of labor be lost; 

Each working together and working for all. 
Listening attentively to the great call, 

With hope hung to the Guiding Star, 

And this is how to win the war. 

No high, no low, no great, no small. 

But room enough for each and all; 

Getting together, staying together. 

Kneeling together, praying together. 

Hoping together, trying together. 

Living together, dying together. 

Both one and all, and near and far. 

And this is how to win the war. 

And when peace is declared and all men are free. 
And hope is restored on land and on sea; 

When all Nations kneel at one common bier. 

And each Nation ’rise with a shout and a cheer 
To tell of its flag and the deeds it’s done. 

Of the battles fought and the victories won. 

And again and again repeat the old, old story. 

Not among the least ’ll be our own Old Glory! 


—15— 


THE FLAG 


The silken banner gently floating in the breeze 
And swiftly flying from the mast-tops on the seas, 
Is but the faintest symbol of that nameless flag, 
That fires the prancing steed and stirs the jaded 
nag; 

That thrills the souls of men to dare to do great 
deeds. 

And soothes the pallid lips and binds the heart 
that bleeds; 

That moves Armies on the land and Navies on the 
sea. 

And in the breast of man plants hope of victory. 

The symbol’s seen by eye and felt by finger tips. 
The flag’s the wondrous Hope of the Apocalypse. 
The symbol is the shadow soon to fade away. 

The flag is lasting as the stars in the milky way. 
The symbol’s like the stupid figure on the board. 
The flag’s the living Rock, the great unspoken 
Word. 

The symbol’s oft suspended from a gilded pole. 
The flag is deeply rooted in the human soul. 

The symbol’s brightly colored red and white and 
blue. 

The flag reflects the spirit of God in me and you. 
The symbol may be rent and perish on the sod. 
The flag is sealed forever in the heart of God. 

The flag is like a blessed angel sent from God, 
Within her secret breast to bear His treasured 
Word, 

And in her folded arms to bring the souls of men. 
And on her gilded wings to take them back again. 


—16— 


It spreads its sacred folds out over land and sea, 

And covers country, mother, home and liberty. 

Its strips of red and white and starry field of blue 

Is the only hope we have to make our dreams come 
true. 

Wave on, wave on, wave on, brave Flag, on land 
and sea. 

Wave on until “the world is safe for Democracy!” 

Wave on, wave on, wave on, wave on. Old Glory, 
wave 1 

Wave on until each tyrant’s in his lowly grave. 


The Last Words of Funston 

or 

“HOW DELIGHTFUL IT IS!” 

How delightful it is to do one’s duty well; 

How delightful it is in the House of God to dwell. 

How delightful it is, like Sheridan on his ride. 
With a heart full of hope, to swim to the Other 
side. 

How delightful it is, at Country’s call. 

To put on the armor and fight for all. 

How delightful it is, in foreign land. 

To uphold the flag and for Justice stand. 

How delightful it is to slip out of the sod. 

And on the wings of music fly to God. 


Listening to the orchestra playing a beautiful waltz in the hotel 
where he was stopping in San Antonio, Texas, General Funston, speak¬ 
ing to a little girl nearby, said, “How delightful it is I” and then ex¬ 
pired, these being his last words. 


17— 




MY BUDDIE ON THE MARNE 

O, don’t you lay your hand on him, 

E’en tho his clothes a little muddy; 

He may be full up to the brim, 

But he’s my buddie, he’s my buddie, he’s my 
buddie! 

IVe stood together 07i the Marne, 

And we'll stand together 7iow; 

And then we didydtgive a daryi, 

A7id 710W we'll show yon howl 

O, don’t you lay your hand on him. 

E’en tho his visage may be ruddy. 

And his old hat may have no brim. 

But he’s my buddie, he’s my buddie, he’s my 
buddie! 

We fought together 071 the Mar7ie, 

A7id we'llfight together 7iow; 

A7id the7i we did7i'tgive a da7'7i, 

A7id now we'll show you howl 

O, don’t you lay your hand on him. 

E’en tho his nerve’s a bit unsteady; 

He may be rough and gaunt and grim. 

But he’s my buddie, he’s my buddie, he’s my 
buddie! 

We bled together 07i the Mar7ie, 

A7id we'll bleed together 7iow; 

A7id the7i we didn'tgive a dar7i, 

A7id 710W we'll show you how! 

O, don’t you lay your hand on him. 

E’en tho his eyes aglint and bloody; 

O, God, you know not where he’s been! 

But he’s my buddie, he’s my buddie, he’s my 
buddie I 

We died together 07i the Mar7ie, 

A7id we' I I die together 7iow; 

A7id then we didyf t give a da 7 ^n, 

A7id now we'll show you howl 

— 18 — 


O LET ME SLEEP RIGHT 
WHERE I FELL 


O let me sleep right where I fell, 

Beside my comrades in the dell, 

Where last our weary feet did plod. 
Out where the blushing poppies nod 
And softly whisper, “All is well!” 

A peace that casts a hallowed spell 
O’er Death and Life and Hope as well. 
Now binds me fast beneath this clod, 

O let me sleep 1 

Until I hear the parting knell. 

And feel the Great Heart throb and swell. 
Let be my shield this tufted sod. 

Let be my safe protector, God, 

With whom at last my soul shall dwell, 

O let me sleep 1 


THEODORE ROOSEVELT 

Ah I who shall write his history? 

And who shall tell his story? 
And who shall name his victory? 
And who shall mark his glory? 

He served no master but himself. 
And used the chast’ning rod; 

He feared no party, power nor pelf. 
His only Conqueror, God. 

Of all great men in this great age. 
In God’s most wondrous plan. 
He stands as warrior, seer and sage. 
The Great American. 


19 — 



OUR PRESIDENT 

[WOODROW WILSON] 

By King and Prince and Potentate, 
He measures to them all; 

In wonder, Nations small and great. 
Are listening to his call. 

He went away across the sea 
In answer to a cry; 

The world was b’reft of liberty. 
And only death was nigh. 

He bore the olive branch of peace 
To friend and foe alike. 

And bade the hurtful strife to cease. 
Forbade the blow to strike. 

On Ship of State he sailed away. 
With snow white flag unfurled. 

And at the helm he stands today. 
The Hope of all the world. 


ON BATTLE FIELDS 

I love to stroll on battle fields. 

No other place to me appeals 
Like this. Anon, I hope to share 
The envied lot of those out there. 
Before whose shrine the world e’er kneels. 

O, how my heart with rapture feels 
The coursing pulse of Him who seals 
The fate of all with loving care. 

On battle fields! 

Tho stars are hid and thunder peals 
No more, and earth no longer reels 
In space, and sun and moon and air 
Now disappear, I know not where. 

Still God to me His love reveals. 

On battle fields! 


— 20 — 



CHRISTMAS IN OLD JUD/EA 

In Old Judaea a child was born 
Of a virgin in the early morn, 

In a lonely manger, cold and dim. 

In the little town of Bethlehem, 

When the world was dark and all forlorn. 

And the wise men, then weary worn 
With heavj^ burden bravely borne, 

. Came from the East to be with them. 

In Old Judaea. 

In spite of hate and priestly scorn. 

With robes of truth they did adorn 
This child of God and Seraphim. 

His soul was filled with love of Him, 
Then to a wicked world unknown. 

In Old Judaea. 


—21 


IF GOD BE WITH THE KAISER 


If God be with the Prussian might, 

Then white is black and black is white. 

If God be with the Prussian crown, 

The world’s inside out and upside down. 

If God be with the Prussian arm, 

Let Satan smile, Delilah charm! 

If God be with the Prussian mind. 

Then Hate is Love and Love is blind. 

If God be with the Prussian heart. 

May battles rage and Peace depart! 

If God be with the Prussian soul. 

Then Hope is crushed from pole to pole. 

If God be with the Prussian host. 

Then liberty’s forever lost. 

If God be with the Prussian king. 

Let green-eyed vipers hiss and sing! 

Be not deceived; God is not mocked, 

Altho aggrieved and sorely shocked 
At a poor, vile worm of the earth, 

(A cripple from the day of his birth), 

To attribute to Him dark crimes so grim 
That the devil himself’s ashamed of them! 

I came not to bring Peace, but a sword! 
Thy will be done. Almighty Lord! 


This poem was written during the war, but was never published be¬ 
cause it referred to the crippled arm of the Kaiser and is only published 
now for its literary merit, the author believing that the Kaiser will have 
enough to answer for without his being upbraided for his affliction. 


— 22 — 



FORGET YOURSELF 


Forget yourself and be a man, 

And do for country all you can 
In time of need and deep distress; 
Stand up and work and ne’er confess 
You are a laggard in the van. 

Throw out your line the world to span, 
The good of all to be your plan; 

With heart and mind of nobleness. 

Forget yourself. 

Now come and join the caravan. 

With arms of brawn and face of tan. 
And all together onward press, 

And leave to God to judge and bless 
Alike each true American, 

Forget yourself. 


THE NEW YEAR 

Jer. 48:17 

The old year’s flown as our tears have fled. 
And the New Year brings us hope; 

We bury our past as we bury our dead. 

On the sunny side of the slope. 

We sow and reap the wheat and chaff, 
As on and up we plod, 

And lo! behold the broken staff! 

And lo! the beautiful rod! 


23 



JOSIAH LAMBORN 


Josiah Lamborn was Abe Lincoln’s friend, 

In legal combat oft they strove, 

But when the heated strife was at an end. 

Each pledged his friendship and his love. 

Here lies his bones in this neglected spot. 
Beneath the bramble and the brier; 

His friendships gone, his virtues all forgot. 

E’en tho his soul a flame of fire. 

Great Lincoln sweetly sleeps in marble hall 
’Neath shaft of granite pointing high; 

Who knows but in that Highest Court of All, 
Poor Lamborn’s spirit’s hovering nigh? 

The shapeless tomb with neither mold nor graft. 
Wherein his formless body lies. 

Is more enduring than the granite shaft. 
Majestic, towering to the skies! 


Mr. Lamborn was Attorney-General of Illinois from 1840 to 1843 and 
died in 1847 at the age of 37 years and is buried in an old abandoned 
cemetery at White Hall, Illinois. 


24 



LABOR DAY 


The right to labor is Divine, 

And given its own reward, 

Its pay is more than gold refined. 

Its joy is of the Lord. 

To earn thy bread by sweat of face. 
Ordained of God himself. 

Is sweeter far and more of grace. 

Than piles of paltry pelf. 

And he who works and he who pays. 
Should each be just and true. 

In looking forward to the days 
When each his task is through. 

But he who hordes a mass of wealth. 

To save his idle breed 

From work and strife and joy of health. 

Is weak and poor, indeed! 

He soon from cares and wealth must part. 
And lie beneath the sod; 

With clouded mind and shriveled heart. 
Must answer to his God. 

The joy of service well performed 
Is known to only One; 

It starts when perfect plan is formed. 

And ends when work is done. 

And now again on Labor Day, 

We pledge our strength to work. 

And never cease to laugh and play. 

And ne’er our duty shirk. 

We stand as ONE, erect and strong. 

With hammer in our hand. 

To help the weary world along. 

And bless our happy land. 


—25 




p Rainbov fi 
dnd Qos© 


26 



THE RAINBOW AND THE ROSE 

I sometimes doubt there is a God, 

When well I know that all who live must die, 
And then at last my eye-lids close; 

But when I see the rainbow in the sky. 

And behold the blossom of the rose, 

’Tis then I know there is a God. 

I sometimes doubt there is a God, 

When winds of hate and clouds of scorn 
draw nigh. 

And fast my stricken soul inclose; 

But when I see the rainbow in the sky, 

And listen to the rustle of the rose, 

’Tis then I know there is a God. 

I sometimes doubt there is a God, 

When friends forget and thoughtless pass 
me by. 

And break my heart for passing shows; 
But when I see the rainbow in the sky. 

And sip the nectar of the rose, 

’Tis then I know there is a God. 

I sometimes doubt there is a God, 

When all is lost in sloth and gone awry. 
And I my tortured soul expose; 

But when I see the rainbow in the sky. 
And pluck the petal from the rose, 

’Tis then I know there is a God. 

I sometimes doubt there is a God, 

When hope withdraws and leaves my soul 
to sigh. 

And doubt inthralls me in its throes; 

But when I see the rainbow in the sky. 
And scent the perfume of the rose, 

’Tis then I know there is a God. 


— 27 — 


NO AND YES 


If Old Temptation comes along 
To lure you to his show 
With his deceit and artful song, 

Say no, say no, say NO ! 

If old Dame Fashion passes by 
To take you to her show. 

With waist down low and skirt up high. 
Say no, say no, say NO 1 

If Wileful Pleasure bid you come 
To his big circus show, 

To see the clown and beat the drum. 

Say no, say NO, say NO! 

But if Shy Youth makes love to you 
And gives you sweet caress. 

And if you know his heart beats true. 
Say yes, say yes, say YES! 

And when you’re in your cottage home 
And both your love confess, 

If little strangers want to como. 

Say yes, say yes, say YES! 

And when St. Peter bids you in 
His holy hand to press. 

To wash away your guilty sin. 

Say yes, say yes, say YES! 


28 — 


EMANCIPATION DAY 

Four million slaves, at once set free, 
With neither friend, nor land, nor sea. 
Nor place to stand or lay their head, 
(E’en slavery’s scanty freedom sped), 
Is the world’s greatest tragedy. 

Helpess they fell upon their knee. 

And looking upward prayerfully. 

In hope and trust were gently led, ’ 

Four million slaves! 

The blooming flower and fruited tree. 
Sprang up from roots of slavery. 

And in profusion ’round them spread, 
With earth beneath and sun o’erhead, 
God’s pledge that ne’er again there’ll be 

Four million slaves! 


DR. A. W. FOREMAN 

[PERSONAL] 

My dear old friend, of long ago, 

May I peep in and say “Hello!” 

And ask you how you’ve been these years 
Whilst traveling through this vale of tears 
On your long journey here below? 

How passed the hours, for weal or woe? 

And how the years that seemed to go 
So fast, with endless hopes and fears. 

My dear old friend? 

And how the setting sun and glow 
Of morning’s early dawn and flow 

Of streams of light from heavenly spheres 
Fill now your soul with blissful cheers 
And benedictions on you bestow. 

My dear old friend? 

The above poem was written as a tribute to Dr. A. W. Foreman, of 
White Hall, Illinois, on his eightieth birthday anniversary. Dr. Foreman 
is a physician and scholar of high character, and much beloved in his 
community. 


— 29 — 




CARUSO 

His golden voice is silent now. 

His winsome smile and lighted brow, 
And manly form no more we’ll see, 
But his great soul from earth set free. 
Is still to us his pledge and vow. 

No gallant knight excelled his prow. 
Nor plumed bird on bending bough 
Surpassed in tender melody. 

His golden voice. 

I 

He scaled the lofty heights, and how 
His master spirit did avow 
In splendor his supremacy 
In all the songs of majesty 
And power that so richly did endow. 

His golden voice! 


— 30 — 


AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A MISSOURIAN 

By Henry Polk Lowenstein 

I ain’t no King, nor Prince, nor Duke, 

But jist a plain Missouri Puke, 

Who loves his frieh’s and sich as that 
An’ pets his dog an’ strokes his cat 
An’ shies away at ev’ry spook! 

An’ all day long jist like a fluke, 

I set an’ pull my ole chibouque. 

An’ lay aroun’ an’ loaf an’ chat, 

I ain’t no King! 

An’ then at night without rebuke, 

I read from Matthew, Mark an’ Luke, 

An’ nearly all the rest, an’ pat 
My wife an’ hug an’ kiss the brat. 

An’ lay aside my ole peruke, 

I ain’t no King! 


—31 


HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR 


Henry Polk Lowenstein was born March 14, 1859, on the 
Burgess Witt farm on Coker Creek in Monroe County, Ten¬ 
nessee, fourteen miles south of Tellico Plains, and while yet 
a babe in his mother's arms his parents moved to Murray 
County, Georgia, and located on the Dr. George W. Brown 
plantation, one mile east of Upper King’s bridge, now called 
Beaverdale, on the Conesauga River, fifteen miles northeast 
of Dalton, where they remained until 1869, when they 
went to Washington County, Arkansas. There they lived 
until 1872, when they temporarily moved to St. Martha, a 
mile and a half south of Pierce City, Missouri, where they 
remained until 1873, when they permanently moved to 
Greene County, Illinois, first locating at Wilmington (now 
Patterson), where they remained until 1877, when they 
moved to White Hall in the same county. Here they re¬ 
mained until their death several years ago. 

His mother’s family name is Ghormley. He has many 
relatives of that name in the South and particularly in Ten¬ 
nessee. 

Prior to his going to Illinois Mr. Lowenstein had always 
been on a farm, and while he attended subscription schools 
a few months in the year in Georgia and Arkansas, his 
education mainly began by attending the common school at 
Patterson and the high school at White Hall. He studied 
law in an office in White Hall, and was admitted to the 
bar by the Supreme Court in 1881. He first located at 
Roodhouse, Illinois, but soon afterwards returned to White 
Hall. In 1884 he lived for a short time at Ottawa, Kansas, 
but returned again to White Hall. In 1886 he located in 
Kansas City, Missouri, where he has remained ever since, 
except a few months in 1892, when he lived in Memphis, 
Tennessee. He has made real estate law a specialty, and 
is regarded as authority in that branch of the law. 


—32 


He has been married twice, and has one child by his first 
wife, Henry Polk Lowenstein, Jr., who is also a lawyer, and 
was Lieutenant (J. G.) in the navy during the war. His 
first wife, Rebecca C. Dempsey, of Danville, Indiana, died 
July 7, 1900. On June 25, 1907, he married Mrs. Belle 
Van Natta Dom of Kansas City, formerly of Burlingame, 
Kansas, an artist of no mean ability. 

He has always been a student of literature, and especially 
verse, but he never wrote poetry for publication until after 
the beginning of the World War. Since then he has pub¬ 
lished many short poems, usually in rondeau form, which 
have received wide newspaper and magazine publication. 
Among these is his best known poem, an ‘‘Answer’' to “In 
Flanders Fields,” by the late Lieut. Col. John McCrae, 
author of the original poem by that title, and which is re¬ 
garded as the greatest poem produced during the war. Mr. 
Lowenstein has received favorable acknowledgment of this 
poem from George V, King of England, Albert, King of Bel¬ 
gium, President Poincare of France, and many notable per¬ 
sons in this country. Mr. Lowenstein is a Blue Lodge, Chap¬ 
ter, Council and Scottish Rite Mason, and belongs to the 
Mystic Shrine, having a life membership in all those bodies. 

For a more extended sketch of his life see the Centennial 
History of Missouri, 1820-1921, by Walter B. Stevens. 



— 33 — 


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